by Thomas Maier
Money became another form of communion between Cushing and the Kennedys, serving their mutual interests. Though once a discreet donor, Joe Kennedy increasingly made sure the family’s charitable largesse was noticed by the public. During the early 1940s, when Rosemary’s behavior after her botched lobotomy turned sullen and erratic, Cushing helped the family find a suitable Catholic-run home for their daughter at a Wisconsin institution for the mentally retarded. When the foundation set up in Joseph Kennedy Jr.’s memory decided to focus on mental retardation, one of its most sizeable donations went to a new hospital for retarded children in the Boston area overseen by Cushing’s diocese. To avoid attention to Rosemary’s condition, Cushing claimed the hospital would be dedicated to helping “poor” children. In August 1946, a few months before the election, the diocesan newspaper, the Boston Pilot, ran a photo of John Kennedy, now thin, almost emaciated-looking, and his mother as they handed over a $600,000 check to Cushing for the new facility named in Joe Jr.’s memory.
Repeatedly, the Kennedys used donations to church-run and Catholic-affiliated organizations to build up Jack’s political reputation. A memo prepared by Morrissey for his boss, the senior Kennedy, listed each group and the amount given, and included such names as United Catholic Charities, St. Mary’s Hospital, Franciscan Sisters of Mary, Christ Child Society, Catholic Women’s Club, Mother Damman Memorial, League of Catholic Women, Convent of Our Lady of the Cenacle and Guild of the Infant Savior. Although these donations undoubtedly did much good, they also expanded the political awareness of Kennedy’s name. Joseph Casey, the 1942 Senate candidate picked by FDR and hurt by Joe Kennedy’s money, later called the foundation’s gifts “perfectly legitimate” and even “laudatory,” but nevertheless insisted they were “political currency.”
Over time, Morrissey and the senior Kennedy judged some donations almost solely for their political impact. Morrissey used his wide contacts within Cushing’s diocese, including many priests, monks and nuns, to build up support among the Italians and Poles as well as the Irish. For example, in deciding on two requests for money from the Home for Italian Children and the Don Orione Rest Home, Morrissey provided a stark analysis to his boss about their possible political benefit. “Monsignor Haberlin wanted to be remembered to you personally and he feels [Jack Kennedy] is still in excellent shape as far as the Italian vote is concerned,” he concluded to Joe Kennedy in one memo. In a follow-up note, Morrissey recalled how the monsignor became overjoyed when he said the Kennedys were thinking of a $65,000 donation for the Don Orione Home.“I think on this gift to the Don Orione Home,Mr. Kennedy, with your permission, I can build this up to a tremendous thing among the Italians in making sure that Jack gets a maximum amount of publicity on it,” Morrissey explained. “I have already planted a couple of thoughts with the good people over there but I have not stated that you would definitely give that amount to them as yet.”
With Morrissey as his right-hand man, Joe Kennedy wielded the foundation’s money as part of a carrot-on-the-stick approach. One Franciscan monk, desperate for funds for his seminary, showed up at the wedding of Jack’s sister, Patricia, hoping to get the attention of the senior Kennedy.“As you may recall, Rev. John J.Trella . . . is the little Franciscan who attended each of your weddings and has been trying desperately to present the case of the Franciscans to you,” Morrissey began, detailing how he met with the friar after the wedding. The Franciscan said he had met with the superiors of his religious order and offered an exchange to the Kennedys. According to Morrissey, the friar “feels that he could make you or Jack a member of the Franciscan Order giving you the title of O.F.M. which he says has been given only to two people in the United States. He claims that if any assistance is given the Franciscans, that they will announce it in each of their churches that he has listed in the letter and would bring it to the attention of all their friends at the big banquet. He also enclosed a magazine that they publish in which he states that they would give the Foundation or the Senator [Jack Kennedy] or anyone you desire a write-up.”Morrissey argued the money should be dispensed to bolster established areas of political support. The priest at the Assumption School in East Boston, which Joe attended as a youngster, was delighted to learn of a gift, Morrissey reported, and “stated very clearly that not only would there be a placque [sic] there in honor of your father and mother but that he would announce it from the altar and through the East Boston newspapers.”
Joe Kennedy kept in constant contact with Cushing about how the foundation money should be dispensed around Boston. “I would like to find out how the Archbishop feels about this organization,” he instructed Morrissey. Over time, Kennedy realized that nearly all the family foundation’s donations were invested in the church.“I would like to do something for some charities that are not Catholic, because 96 or 97 percent of what money we give goes to Catholic causes, but I don’t want to do anything for them unless they really help as they should,” he directed. Morrissey responded by letting the boss know of some “negro” groups that were being “buttered” with Kennedy largesse.
Although ostensibly working for Jack, Morrissey spent a large amount of time dealing with the archbishop and the senior Kennedy, no easy task to be sure. Both men possessed very similar personalities—outspoken and direct, Morrissey remembered, which sometimes caused difficulties. Unlike the condescending manner of a Cardinal O’Connell, Cushing seemed to defer to Joe Kennedy’s power and money, as did nearly everyone in his world. As Cushing himself later admitted,“At first, Joe and I didn’t hit it off at all.”
Their most intense clash occurred over the foundation’s funding for the Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. Memorial, the hospital for retarded children. A newspaper article in the Boston Post, based on a public talk given by Cushing, suggested that the Kennedys had welched on a promise of more funding for the facility. In fact, the foundation gave $725,000 to create the hospital with the agreement that Cushing would find other donors for the rest of the construction and operating budgets. “The archbishop expressed the belief that the Kennedy Foundation should make a contribution for this purpose since it bears the Kennedy name,” the Post reported. As soon as he spotted the story, Cushing knew he was in trouble. He hurriedly contacted the reporter, who sent Cushing a handwritten letter of apology; it was then forwarded to Kennedy with a more formal letter of explanation from Cushing himself.“Having read his article, I was shocked to put it mildly,” the archbishop confessed. When he arrived home in New York from Chicago, Joe Kennedy erupted over the archbishop’s reported comments. “Needless to say, Mrs. Kennedy and I—indeed, the whole family—were deeply shocked and grieved by your reported remarks,” he began unforgivingly. Despite Cushing’s denials and apologies, Kennedy told the archbishop that he had heard rumors to the same effect. “Naturally, [I] gave them no credence at the time, nor even thought it necessary to bring them to your attention, in view of the clarity of our understanding of your relationship and that of the Foundation to the operating problems of the Memorial.” Kennedy took this occasion to demand that his own aides review the church’s finances at the hospital to find out why it needed more money and to make it operate “on an efficient and business-like basis.”
Cushing never forgot his lesson. When dealing with the elder Kennedy, Cushing acted warily. Joe Kennedy didn’t want to be perceived, in Cushing’s phrase, as “a Santa Claus.”The Kennedy patriarch insisted upon getting value for his charitable dollar, both in this world and the next. “If one has been fortunate enough, with God’s help, to amass a fortune, one comes to a sense of realization that God must have meant him to give so that he could make it possible, in a measure, for his noble workers, like yourself, to carry on His charity,” he explained to Cushing. In thanking him for another $250,000 check in the mid–1950s, the archbishop passed along praise for Kennedy from the FBI director, J. Edgar Hoover, for whom, FBI records later showed, the prelate acted as a government informant.“He certainly has tremendous admiration and esteem for you,” the a
rchbishop told Joe. “It is really a remarkable thing that the only Catholic layman in this country, in my estimation, who is mentioned by the highest leaders of the country is yourself. That is a tremendous tribute to you but it is also a manifestation of our own weakness. Would that we had hundreds like you.”
Aside from hefty donations, Cushing knew Joe Kennedy also wielded other power over him. For more than a decade, Cushing waited for Rome to appoint him a cardinal, a fairly common move after an archbishop had served for a while in a diocese as large as Boston. But Cushing knew that Spellman had put a damper on his elevation and was grateful for any assistance that Joe Kennedy could provide. When Joe Kennedy visited with the Pope in Rome, Frank Morrissey quickly relayed to Cushing back in Boston that his boss had put in a good word for him.“You will never know how grateful I am for your thoughtfulness in speaking so laudatory about me and the activity of the Archdiocese to His Holiness,” Cushing wrote to Joe. “I really feel that you were the only man in the Church who could speak adequately and effectively to the Pope about the status of our sector of the vineyard. . . . Confidentially let me tell you, that I never had a satisfactory Papal audience and I had no one close to His Holiness to say a kind word for us.”
When he returned to America, Kennedy wrote back to say that he was “deeply touched” by Cushing’s candid admission and tried to buck up his spirits in the same way he might for one of his family. Kennedy told him of his talk with his long-time friend, Count Enrico Galeazzi,“who, as you know, next to the Holy Father’s nephew, Prince Pacelli, is the closest man to the Holy Father and sees him every day.” Because of his talks in Rome about Cushing,Kennedy added, he was hopeful of “some visible sign of the Holy Father’s great satisfaction of the work being done by you.” Kennedy subtly underlined just how much effort he had made on Cushing’s behalf. “This may seem like stepping into a situation that is none of my business, but I made it very clear that as a Catholic, as a Bostonian, as a man who recognizes such a magnificent contribution to the Church’s work, I feel completely justified in my attitude.” For this successful intervention with Rome, Kennedy earned the undying gratitude of Cushing, who became a cardinal in 1958.
Joe Kennedy appreciated Cushing’s own contribution to the spiritual life of his family, and became indebted for his many kindnesses. The cardinal counseled Rose and encouraged her efforts at public speaking, and he befriended Jack, whom Cushing called his “best friend.” In politics, Jack Kennedy continued to receive blessings from his association with Cushing, such as the time he recited the rosary with him on a radio program. “I believe this is the only time a layman has ever had this privilege,” gushed the president of Assumption College, a small Catholic school in Worcester, in a letter to Joe Kennedy. Cushing, though not a formally declared partisan, couldn’t help showing his public support for Jack.“He has a hard fight but I am very optimistic about his success,” he wrote to Joe about his son’s upcoming election. The old man himself recognized Cushing’s contributions to his fallen son’s memorial and promoting the Kennedy name among the voters of Boston.“To see an idea brought to fruition under the guidance of a great church man like yourself, must give to anyone the same satisfaction that it gives to Rose and me,” Joe wrote.“Your interest in Jack and Bobby and Teddy has so touched our hearts that we do not feel that we can ever repay you in any way whatsoever.”
THE EXTENSIVE TIES between religion and politics in Jack Kennedy’s early success in Boston remained largely unknown. The campaign’s fresh-faced volunteers, many of them pushed to the forefront by Joe Kane, obscured the truth of who was really responsible for its success. Kane, Morrissey and Dave Powers already knew, and other newcomers such as Mark Dalton, hired as a speechwriter, found out when they got their marching orders.“He’d be sitting in his hotel room, somewhat in shadow,” recalled Dalton about the candidate’s father. “With him would usually be Joe Timilty, former Police Commissioner, and Archbishop Cushing. In this sense he was surrounded by the powers sacred and secular, both of them subordinate to him. I remember once when he got mad at Cushing and yelled, ‘Who the hell does he think he is? If he wants that little red cardinal’s hat he’d better shape up because I’ve got a hell of a lot more friends in Rome than he does.’ It was strong stuff for a young Catholic man like myself. Going to see Mr. Kennedy in those days was like going to visit God.”
When the November 1946 election returns came in, the Irish Catholics in Boston were disappointed. In the U.S. Senate race, the Democratic incumbent David Walsh, the state’s first Irish Catholic elected to the post, lost to Republican Henry Cabot Lodge Jr. The Democrats’ ticket of Maurice Tobin and Paul Dever, running for governor and lieutenant governor, also lost decisively to the Republican ticket, headed by Robert Fiske Bradford, in what one writer called “a direct confrontation between the Catholic Irish and the Brahmins.” For the most part in Massachusetts, the Brahmins won. But a Democratic win in the 11th District was never in doubt. Twenty-nine-year-old John F. Kennedy, who had beaten a crowded field in the party’s primary contest in mid-June, handily defeated the Republican, Lester W. Bowen, by nearly a three-to-one margin. On primary night, Jack, once a cool, detached observer, shook the hand of every campaign worker he could find and, with tears brimming in his eyes, expressed thanks. Honey Fitz, who had introduced his grandson each Sunday to dozens of parishioners at St. Stephen’s Church—and had also taught him to remember each name with the face—was overjoyed. He jumped up with a jig on a table and began singing his trademark, “Sweet Adeline.”
Jack Kennedy won by embracing his roots, a move of political necessity in Boston and, perhaps more than his critics realized, of personal choice. His campaign employed virtually every aspect of Irish politics in Boston, and yet somehow pushed its possibilities into a different era, leaving behind the days of Curley, Cardinal O’Connell and his own Honey Fitz. When the election results were announced, his grandfather predicted that Jack would become the first Irish Catholic elected as president—the dream his father had cherished for his lost brother. Not until days after Election Day did it all seem to sink in. At an Armistice Day ceremony at an American Legion hall in Charlestown, Jack gave his usual political speech, moving along gracefully until he hit one particular line:“No greater love has a man than he who gives up his life for his brother.” Suddenly, Kennedy started to cry.
“He broke down and was unable to finish the speech,” recalled Mary McNeely, a supporter.“An elderly little woman, Mrs. Lillian Keeney, got up to carry on for Jack. While I played the piano, she sang ‘Too-Ra-Loo-Ra- Loo-Ra.’And whenever I met Jack after that, he always asked for that.”
The song, as Kennedy well knew, was an Irish lullaby.
Chapter Sixteen
Eire
NO FINER CASTLE IN IRELAND existed than Lismore, and for Kathleen Kennedy, there was certainly no grander tribute to her dead husband than the ancestral estate with eight thousand pastoral acres in the heart of Waterford County, just south of Tipperary. Like some fairy-tale castle, Lismore’s vast stone structure, with its massive square towers and turrets, loomed above a rocky bluff resting along the River Blackway, silently attesting to the many decades the Cavendishes had presided over the valley.
In a postcard sent home to Massachusetts, Lismore Castle emblazoned on its front, Kick scribbled a little arrow pointing to a small window in the mammoth building, whimsically adding the words,“My room.”
During his first summer as a congressman in 1947, Jack decided to visit Lismore as a guest of his widowed sister, known to all as Lady Hartington. Lismore possessed a fascinating past for a history buff like Jack. In 1185, King John of England built a stone castle on the grounds, originally the site of a monastery for Catholic priests, monks and nuns, and later turned it over to the church for use as a bishop’s palatial residence. In 1589, Sir Walter Raleigh bought the castle, and when he was imprisoned for high treason a decade later, he sold it to Richard Boyle, the first Earl of Cork. During the reign of Cromwell, Irish Cath
olic confederates sacked both the town and Lismore Castle, but eventually the British gained control and the castle fell into the hands of the Cavendish family, starting with the fourth Duke of Devonshire in 1753. Billy’s forebear, the sixth Duke of Devonshire, a patron of Charles Dickens and William Makepeace Thackeray, restored the ancient castle to its almost magical quality. Inside were paintings by the masters,Flemish tapestries, several dozen bedrooms, a massive fireplace in the drawing room and a church-like banquet hall. Lismore served mainly as a summer home for the wealthy Cavendish family and their guests, including Adele Astaire, the widow of Billy’s uncle and sister of the American entertainer Fred Astaire, who sometimes paid a visit. Captivated by its beauty, Kick wondered in a letter home just how far away her own forebears, the Irish Kennedys, once lived from this castle.“The food is terrific. I shall burst before returning to England,” she explained to her parents, writing on Lismore Castle stationary. “The people are so charming as ever and I wish I knew where our ancestors came from.”
During Jack’s 1946 congressional race in Boston, Kathleen was one of the few family members (other than the disabled Rosemary) who didn’t help in the effort. The Kennedys kept her far from the limelight because of concern for the political consequences of Kick’s marriage to a British Protestant marquis. Though they fought side-by-side with the British during the war, many Irish-Americans could not forget Great Britain’s past with Ireland. Before she arrived home for a visit in September 1945, Kick wondered whether she “might give some lectures” in Boston on the work of the Red Cross in Great Britain. “What does Daddy think of the idea?” she asked, to no avail.
